Welcome Home
by Blue Dragon
Summary: Years after 54, the last Animorph survivor returns from Kelbrid space, to find Cassie an empty shell of her former self: she's held captive in her own home, she can't morph, and worse... they've stolen her daughter. PREQUEL TO SLAVE'S TIARA.
1. a story

**1 - a story**

Her scent was everywhere; fresh and familiar – almost painfully familiar. He had not thought that he would remember the smell of her so clearly – more clearly than he could recall her face – but he did. Of course, the fact that he was in wolf morph probably had something to do with it.

He sat down on his haunches, watching the house. The lights were on in only two windows, one of the top floor and one not far from the door – the living room, he recalled. It presented a contrast to the blackness of the surroundings. It was a welcoming sight. He drew in the cool night air through his nostrils until everything around him was etched into his mind; until he knew all the fragrances as if they had been properly introduced and he had studied their biographies. It was good to be home. To feel the scents of pine trees and berries; and those of crumbling paint and planking, still soaked by the rain earlier that evening; chilly spring air with just a touch of winter lingering; a morning mist beginning to form; the smell of a deer which had passed just before he had arrived... the various smells of the barn, and the countless inhabitants it had held, scents etched too deeply into the wood of the walls itself to ever truly fade. Some of those smells reminded his wolf body in no uncertain terms that it was time to eat. How long since he had eaten? He did not know – it was irrelevant. He was used to hunger, and paid it no mind.

What was relevant, what he at that moment savoured above everything else, was the familiar smells of everything around him, everything that was Earth, and most importantly the smell of one of his closest friends, of her. Cassie's scent, accompanied by a male one he did not recognize, left a near straight line from the barn's door to the house's door. She must have been barefoot, he thought, to leave so clear a scent. The fact that it had rained heavily during the previous evening and all older smells were washed away helped, too.

So long since he had smelled anything familiar. If he had not been so weary, if he had not been in wolf morph, he might have wept with relief.

He was finally home.

For some time he sat watching the house, wondering if he dared demorph and ring the bell.

At last, having heaved a great wolf sigh, he did so. He grew out of his shaggy, grey morph and resumed his own form. On feet as silent as the morning mist he hade his way to the door. He hesitated only once before knocking. There was, he noticed, no functioning door bell, so knocking would have to do.

The door rattled and the knocking echoed dully. Even though he repeated it twice, louder each time, there was no reply.

Cassie's scent had been strong enough to convince the wolf that she had entered the door only an hour or two before, and had not left since. Of course, she could have morphed and flown out a window without him being the wiser, but he doubted the possibility; he denied it. If so, he decided, he would remorph wolf and curl up on her doorstep to wait. He was in no mood to go searching any longer, or travel anywhere further.

After a fourth knock he tried something new. "Cassie – open the door!" he called, adding: "It's me."

Only when the words had left him did he remember that they had not met for many years and there was no guarantee that she would remember his voice.

He told himself off sharply for being silly. Of course she would remember his voice. No matter that he had lost track of days, months, years: he could not have been gone so long that one Animorph would not recognize the other.

He heard a metallic whine of protest as the handle was pulled down and the door opened – just a crack, to begin with, which slowly grew until the door was completely open.

Cassie stood with one hand still on the door – that grip did not ease, and at the sight of him her expression did not alter, aside from a flicker in her eyes. Her face was not much changed; a bit more adult, less teenager, visible in the slightly sharper features around her eyes and mouth; but it was much more haggard, even a tad gaunt. Her eyes were beyond recognition: gone was the caring warmth, and in its place was only saddened apathy.

Despite all he had seen, from the One's enslavement of Ax, to the Elŷrrian slave camps, from the Yeerk pool to the customary devastation left wherever the Kelbrid passed, even the slow and agonising demise of his best friend, all seemed to fade into the background in the light of Cassie's dead eyes.

Something, he knew instantly, was very wrong. His spine turned to ice, and his mind exploded into futile protest, rage blending into despair.

Not this. Not now.

Through his entire experience in Kelbrid territory, and beyond Kelbrid territory, he had survived on the determination to return home, to safety and peace, to his parents and to the only other remaining Animorph. The vicious Kelbrid had not taken that from him. They had not killed the memory of kindness. The deceitful Elŷrrics had not corrupted that hope. They had not been able to shatter his dreams of Earth.

Unless this was another Elŷrrian trick, and he was still trapped in their nightmarish realms, forced into their services, cowed by their cruel, mind-warping tiaras...

No.

He was free of them. Free, free, free. And never would he go back, never, never: he would rather turn himself over to the Yeerks.

He shook his head and took another look at Cassie. How frail and fractured she looked with those eyes.

Beneath his primary reason, he had come hoping to have someone to talk to, someone he trusted, and who would listen without judging him. Someone who would understand, and could share his losses.

The deadness of Cassie's eyes dispelled that hope. It was she who had a story to tell, and he would have to listen. Still, he felt little disappointment. He knew few people who truly deserved happiness, but Cassie was one of them, and seeing her in this state made him too angry to waste any energy on disappointment.

"Hello, Cassie," he said. When there was no response, he waved a hand in front of her face, catching her attention, pulling it to his own face. "Hello, Cassie," he said again.

Cassie stared at him, as if unseeing. "Marco," she murmured, her eyes flickering again. She reached out to touch him – his arm, then his face, as if to make sure he was real. Tears welled in her eyes, and her hand clenched into a fist about the fabric of his uniform's collar. Her gaze had fallen away from him, and apparently she no longer saw him.

Marco put an arm around her shoulders and led her back to the room she had probably come from – the living room. The room beside the door, with the lights on. She sat down on the sofa, watching him as he pulled up an armchair to sit opposite her.

Cassie sat with her shoulders slumped in defeat and her hands resting palms-up on her lap. Marco took one hand first, then the other, and squeezed them both comfortingly. When she looked at him, though, he had to look away; he could not meet that sadness yet.

His eyes strayed to the corner of the room. It was a surprisingly lifeless room, as if no-one lived in it. There were no decorations aside from two photographs; one of Cassie's parents, working together in the barn, and one of Ronnie and Cassie, both smiling. Ronnie stood behind Cassie, his arms around her, his hands locked into hers, and his chin on the top of her head. There was such life in that picture; in no way did it fit into the room.

Marco noticed, too, that in that picture, Cassie was clearly pregnant.

Looking down at her hands, he noticed a single gold ring on one finger: an engagement ring. But no wedding ring.

"Jake... couldn't come," he said lowly, deciding to solve the mysteries slowly, instead of asking blunt questions. "He asked me to check in on you... make sure you're okay." Cassie's hands were limp in his own, even as he pulled his thumbs over the back of her fingers to clench her hands. "I told him you were fine. I thought you'd be fine... you'd have Ronnie looking after you, and I seem to have guessed correctly..." He sent a meaningful look at the photograph. "But obviously something's gone wrong," he continued seriously, as a cold tear landed on his hand. "So, Cassie – what's wrong?"

Cassie shook in a sudden sob, folding forwards as if all her strength had suddenly left her, making Marco catch her by the shoulders to keep her upright and lean her back into the sofa. She crumbled and curled into a ball, but by then the sobs had faded. Perhaps she had cried too often.

Marco sat watching her, unsure as to what he should do. She probably needed a hug, a kiss on the forehead... some sort of comfort. But it was not his place to hug Cassie – that was Jake's place. Or Ronnie's..?

Again he told himself off. Jake was dead and Ronnie had apparently abandoned his post.

Awkwardly he patted Cassie's shoulder, moving to kneel on the floor before her, his face almost level with hers.

"Tell me what's wrong, Cass."

Cassie gave no reply, barely acknowledging that he had spoken. She looked towards him, dazedly, the emptiness in her eyes making him realise that she would not reply.

Hunger, ever unwelcome, rumbled in his belly.

Marco sighed. "Okay, tell me later... would you mind if I eat something first?"

The other Animorph said nothing. Marco's stomach prodded him with another pang of hunger. "I suppose you don't mind if I steal from your kitchen, either?"

Still, no reply.

Marco grimaced mentally. He took the listless Animorph beneath her arms and hoisted her to her feet. Only after having held her up for several moments did she seem to comprehend that she was supposed to stay upright, and made an effort to do so, allowing Marco to ease his hold.

How long had she lived like this? How did she survive? And living alone, too. "Come on," he urged, leading her towards the kitchen. "You look like you could use a meal, too."


	2. about

**2 - about**

(improvised thought-speech signs #)

As Cassie was led into the kitchen, she pulled free of him and on her own headed towards the refrigerator. Using only uncanny, automatised motions, she opened the refrigerator and brought out a single-portion package of ready-made food. She placed it in the microwave over on the counter, and stood waiting until it was ready. With the same dreamy demeanour, she took the food out of the microwave, placed it on the table, and fetched a fork and knife from a drawer.

It was as if she was just going through what she had been taught, step by step, and when finished – in her own mind – hearing a repetition of a soothing "good, Cassie".

Marco shrugged and copied her; he took food from the refrigerator and, remembering that he was back in civilized surroundings, grimaced and had it prepared in the microwave oven. While he waited, he turned on the lights.

"So how are your parents?" he asked as he sat down to eat. His stomach growled insistently, but he forced himself to eat excessively slowly, a little at the time. He had not eaten for long – he would only be sick if he ate too quickly, or too much. He estimated that he could safely ingest a third of the meal. Otherwise he would only lose the food again to a bad stomach.

Cassie paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. Slowly she lowered it again, staring blankly at him.

"Dead?" Marco guessed, cursing inwardly.

After a few moments, Cassie resumed eating, still without giving any reply. Marco doubted that any answer she could have given would have been very detailed. He looked about the room, looking for something that offered some sort of answer, about anything. Luckily, he caught sight of a calendar – neatly X-ed on every passing day – on the wall. His food almost caught in his throat when he realised that he had been gone only five years.

Only five years?

That would make him about twenty-four years old. He felt so much older. Cassie looked so much older. So much had happened. The search for the Blade ship, the One, the escape from the Yeerks, the Kelbrid... for so long, their only goal had been trying to survive having caught the attention of the Kelbrid. Then the Tenkhari, the Lhosh, the Ag'e'urnee, the Elŷrrics and their slave camps... he shuddered at the memory and felt as if five years must have passed only there.

He ate slowly, and in silence.

Of course, he supposed; of course he would feel old. The war against the Yeerks had made him old. Rachel's death had made him old. Tobias's death, Santorelli's death, Menderash's slowly advancing madness... that, too, had made him old, dispelling what youth he might have regained during the three years after the Yeerk war. Jeanne's sudden collapse when the Elŷrrics had shot her, frightening despite how she had almost immediately recovered. Jake's long battle against a hit from the same weapon... his mind slipping, his face grey as ashes, his body limp as Marco and Jeanne had dragged him away from their pursuers and to temporary safety.

Temporary, for the Elŷrrics had found them, and he too had been hit by their version of dracons. They had used too little power as they fired the first time at Jeanne, and too much as they fired at Jake, but for him they had set it correctly, allowing them precisely what they were after: a live prisoner, ready for their camps. Jeanne had met the same fate.

Marco finished eating, quickly now before the bile could grow in his throat at the thought of those camps, the slave camps. He shoved the plate firmly aside – he had already eaten more than his third – and forced his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears, clenching his jaw, and trying to forget.

But there was no forgetting the Elŷrrics. He supposed they would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He thought of the silver tiara in his chest pocket – thought again about destroying it – but again, could not. He knew why, too: the first thing they had taught him, using that very tiara, was not to destroy it, or leave it behind. He had been free of them for a long time – he had not worn that tiara for a long time – but he was unable to destroy it, just as he was unable to bend his elbow the wrong way.

Well, not without breaking it, at least.

A hand resting lightly on the top of his head woke him from the bitter thoughts. He realised that he had buried his face in his hands, and now raised it to look up at Cassie. She had reached out to place her hand on his head, and there it remained even as she met his gaze.

"I can't put them behind me," he murmured, his hand touching the pocket where the tiara rested, making sure it was still there. He shuddered, and wavered, but with practiced ease forced himself to focus. "Now listen, Cass. What's wrong?"

She gave no reply. Marco closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, trying to remain calm. He blanked his mind – and heard the sound of a creaking stair. Footsteps were coming down the stairs. There was a pause in the creaking, and he could hear someone give a huge yawn.

"Who is it?" he wondered lowly, looking to Cassie. "Someone's coming."

A flicker of remorse crossed Cassie's features. It was only there for a moment, but Marco was certain he had seen it, and he needed to see nothing more.

He was very happy that Cassie's home had a back door. In another few minutes, he and Cassie had retreated out of the house and in amongst the wild-grown trees by the barn.

Marco would have had no qualms about leaving the vicinity of Cassie's house at once, and even less about taking the silent Animorph with him. He entertained thoughts about finding his parents, and asking them what was going on. But he had always preferred finding out for himself to asking. The one person he might actually have asked was, unfortunately, not speaking much at the time.

He led Cassie into the barn, sitting her down in the corner of one of the stalls and leaving her there. From the deadened look in her eyes, she would not be going anywhere soon.

Though quick to overcome it, he had been shocked to find the barn empty. It still smelled of its many inhabitants, from horses to foxes to squirrels, but the cages stood cleaned and abandoned and the equipment which once had littered shelves and desks and tables was now cleared away. The floor was not swept and there was no sign of any recent activity. The dust on the boarding made it easy to see the many footprints of small, bare feet, crossing the barn from the doorway and continuing in aimless circles around and around. Finally, the bare feet had met with a pair of shoes – sneakers, Marco guessed – and the two went side by side straight back to the doorway and out it.

Marco took one last look at Cassie – as he had figured, there was no change; she sat where she had been placed – before he began morphing.

He had not been an owl for a long time, but he melted easily into the shape, and flying was as easy then as it had ever been. He swept out through a window he had opened, and flew towards the house.

He landed on a tree branch from where he could easily see into the kitchen, and the living room.

In Cassie's kitchen there was a young man, probably younger than Marco himself, dressed in unremarkable everyday clothes. He walked around the lower floor as if searching for someone, and the more he walked around the more worried he appeared. He checked the front door, and the back door, and found them both closed. He made sure all the windows were shut, and stared out through them, all before he disappeared back upstairs for a while. Then he returned to the bottom floor, where he ran around searching anew.

Finally, he came out the front door, wearing white sneakers and heading towards the barn. Marco was ready to dive from his branch and figure out some way to intervene, when he heard the car.

An old Volvo came up the driveway, stopping just outside the house, and the young man stopped to watch it.

Another human came out of the car. This one was a woman, roughly fifty years of age. She looked like someone's old math teacher, strict and forbidding but with a kind word to spare if one was deserved. She looked questioningly at the young man, and Marco's owl ears could easily hear their conversation.

"What are you doing out here?" wondered the woman.

"Fetching back Cassie," replied the young man. "I was just going to get her ready for bed, but she's gone wandering."

"You let her leave the house?" hissed the woman angrily. "Again?"

"Doc, it's not like she's likely to disappear, she'll only go to the barn –"

"I'll have you fired, Charlie, if this is repeated. Do you hear me? I'll have to report you!"

Charlie looked uncomfortable, glancing down to watch his toes dig into the grass.

The woman was glaring, now. "Don't tell me you sat upstairs watching TV again."

"I wear headphones, so it's not likely to bother her, and once she's had her meds she's in no need of watching, she only sits there and stares."

"She only sits there and stares, you say, and somehow, while only sitting and staring, she gets away from you."

"She's only gone to the barn, doc," Charlie protested. "That's all she does."

"That's all she's done so far," snarled the woman. "Listen, Charlie. I'm going inside, and I'm calling Dr Glas and reporting you. You'd better hope he's more kind than I am. You, are going to find the patient and bring her back. Understood?"

"Yes, doc," agreed Charlie glumly.

The woman stalked off towards the house, while Charlie began towards the barn.

#Sorry, Charlie,# said a black shape to itself as it rose out of the shadows and tapped the side of Charlie's head, making him slump.

The gorilla then proceeded to lumber into the barn, unconcerned. He reached the stall where he had left Cassie, and without further ado stepped inside and picked her up like a child. She did not struggle, and even leaned against his chest, trusting him. Whether or not she recognized him, he did not know, but it did not matter much.

#So they've put you on meds, Cass# he murmured to her, unable to keep the anger from his voice. #Strong ones, too, I think. That explains this apathy. I'll just have to wait until you wake up.#


	3. the possible

**3 - the possible**

As he walked on into the forest, he demorphed, finally putting Cassie down and making her walk along beside him. He wished he had taken some supplies from Cassie's home, but he had not. He wished he could have returned to wolf, which would have made this trip so much easier, but he doubted he could make Cassie morph.

He grumbled and walked on, half-blind, searching his mind for a good morph as he went.

Finally, he sighed and realised that the only available morph he had able to transport Cassie, aside from human, was gorilla, which would not help him much. He remained human. Gorilla would increase his strength, true, but Cassie scarcely weighed more than a child.

It was close to dawn when they arrived.

"Open up," Marco wearily told the small fighter in front of him. "It's me."

The craft had the appearance and shape of an overly large almond, but made of gleaming steel. It was a Tenkharian shuttle craft, made to function primarily as some sort of taxi between the many moons which made up the Tenkharian realm. It was armed with a single cannon, more to blast stray asteroids than enemies, but still powerful. Setting out with it, he had been surprised but pleased to see that it mastered z-space, even more surprised at finding out that it carried enough supplies to last him almost all the way home (on strict rations), and more surprised than anything at the growing realisation that the Elŷrrics were not following him.

But then again, why would they bother? One slave, more or less, did they care? Did they even notice?

A hatch appeared on the craft's side at the sound of Marco's voice, and he gently hoisted Cassie in through it before entering himself.

"Close hatch," he instructed, and the trusty little craft obeyed again.

The fighter's inside was simple but cosy, split into two chambers: a living quarters in the back, and a small bridge, where there was one chair for the driver, and ten for the passengers. The chairs he had adapted with the use of his wide variety of morphs until they were fit for humans, but they were still far from comfortable. The living quarters had been fit for humans from the start: the tall, serpent-like Tenkhari, just as humans, liked soft and flat beds. No matter that they were round instead of rectangular – Marco had been sleeping like a king. Having folded out only one of the eleven possible beds from the walls, there had even been enough room for a human to move about the chamber.

He deposited Cassie on the bed, and made sure she was comfortable. She closed her eyes as if to sleep, and Marco awkwardly patted her shoulder before leaving her to rest.

He exited the craft and went to fetch water in a nearby spring, swinging a container as he walked. On the way back, when it was full, he did not swing it as easily. He left it in the foremost chamber of his fighter, checked on Cassie to see that she was sleeping, and went back out. Now, he morphed the great horned owl, and set off hunting. He came back, roughly two hours later, with a dead rabbit in one hand.

He sat down outside the fighter and began to prepare the creature. His Hork-Bajir morph came to good use in skinning the small creature, and in splitting the meat into manageable bits, even if the Hork-Bajir was a bit clumsy.

As the sun rose, the meat was being turned slowly on a skewer over a small fire, just beginning to smell edible. He picked one piece off the skewer and inspected it, taking a bite. It was still pink at the centre, but the edges had not yet blackened – almost perfect. He took the entire skewer off the fire, sat down near the warmth of the fire, and began to eat.

When he had finished his meal, he re-entered his small ship and checked on Cassie.

She was still asleep. She had curled together, in the middle of the bed, both arms wrapped around her belly, and her face was twisted with horror. Now and again, she would twitch, and pull her knees even closer to her chest, or hunch her head down between her shoulders, like one awaiting a beating.

Marco watched for a moment, feeling lost, and knowing that his eyes were aglow with anger. Whoever had caused Cassie to be like this? He doubted it was the medicines the people at Cassie's house had been speaking of. Medicines – probably meant to keep her docile – would have prevented this, not caused it. The meds were leaving Cassie's system – something else was tormenting her.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached awkwardly out to touch her shoulder, unsure whether or not it was meant to wake her, or to comfort her.

"Ronnie," she murmured, grasping his hand with both her own, holding it to her chest. Her face grew serene, and her body relaxed, easing down on the bed.

Marco did not have the heart to contradict her, or to pull his hand back. He squeezed Cassie's fingers and remained where he was, watching her sleep.

She finally opened her eyes, and searched around the unfamiliar room until she found Marco. Relief flooded her face, and then left her in the way of a small sigh. She released his hand, closing her eyes again.

"Jake?" she asked in a small voice. "Tobias? Ax?"

"No," Marco whispered, settling the ordinary lid heavily over the grief. He still had to be the strong one – he had hoped he was done with that. He had hoped that coming home would allow him to finally give in to the memories, the now-old grieves, and the fears. He needed so to weep.

Instead, he had found the person he had hoped would support him, comfort him, in even more need of help than he was.

Cassie did not break out into sobs, as he had feared. She gave a small nod. For a moment, she was quiet. During that moment, her eyes opened again.

"What's happened, Cassie?" Marco wondered softly. "Tell me what's wrong."

Cassie straightened her neck and looked up at him, past the knees she still held pulled to her chest. "They've taken my child."

Marco's instinctive reaction was Yeerks! He froze in place, and – and realised that no, not Yeerks, they were gone from Earth. It could not, he assured himself, be the Elŷrrics either. The Elŷrrian realms were on the other side of the Kelbrid territory, and for that he was grateful.

He went over the options in his head, and only found one credible alternative: "Ronnie," he growled.

Ronnie would regret it if Marco ever caught him. He had ruined Marco's return home as surely as the Elŷrrics' mind-warpers had tried to do so. And Ronnie had hurt Cassie. Two goals Marco had had in coming: partly, to restore his own peace. Foremost, though, was a promise he had made to Jake: make sure Cassie was okay. That was exactly what he intended to do. And the only bright spot he saw in Ronnie's future, was the fact that Jake had not come himself. A grim darkness settled over him. Ronnie would wish he had never seen the light of day.

"Ronnie's dead," she told him.

Marco blinked and frowned, almost scowling. Ronnie had been a perfect target for his anger.

"They killed him," Cassie whispered, her saddened eyes locked on his, pleading for his... sympathy? Understanding?

Pleading for him to stand on her side?

Of course he would. He reached down his hand towards her again, and she took it, holding it almost painfully tight.

"They killed him because... because of his opinions." She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him, but he listened anyway. "He spoke too strongly and too often for what he believed in," she continued, her dry eyes revealing her grief more strongly than a flood of tears would have done.

She had already cried too much.

"What did he believe in?" Marco asked, as Cassie lapsed into silence.

"He believed in the Hork-Bajir, and other aliens. Many don't like them... don't like their presence on Earth. Don't like space ports which have been opened for interstellar trade." Cassie bit her lip and closed her eyes. "He was beginning a political career. They silenced him – and they tried to kill me."

"But Animorphs don't die easily," Marco murmured, smiling and on an impulse touching her cheek.

She opened her eyes, and they were as listless as when she had first opened the door. She did not even look at him, only staring into space. "They've taken my daughter," she croaked.

"We'll get her back," Marco assured her softly, and asked: "What's her name?"

"Tanya."

"Tanya," he repeated, and nodded. "And where are your parents?"

"Plane crash," she told him in an empty voice. "An accident. Before... before Ronnie died."

Marco gave another small nod, sympathy in his every feature. Things had gone badly indeed for Cassie since he and the others had left Earth.


	4. consequences

**4 – consequences**

As Marco had suspected, answers to his questions did not come easily from the mourning Animorph. What responses she even gave were seldom related to what he had asked.

Finally, he managed to wrangle a name and a somewhat coherent story out of her. But Marco soon came to think that any memory Cassie had of the time after she and Ronnie had been attacked, was at least half as jumbled and confused as her way of explaining them.

During that attack, she had lost consciousness, and found herself in some sort of hospital, where they had kept her for some time. She had mentioned a room with a locked door, making Marco frown and wonder what sort of place that "hospital" really had been.

Her child, her Tanya, had been missing, even then. They had tried to make her forget...

And that was where the name appeared: Dr Robert Glas. Apparently he had been in charge of Cassie's care at the hospital. Her mental care; she did not mention anything about suffering any wounds. He had told her that her daughter did not exist. When she insisted, cried and begged, they had kept her in the hospital. How long, she did not say. When they had moved her back to her own house, he had no way of knowing.

What he knew was anger. Seething, burning, blinding fury.

_How dare they_? Did they think they could treat an Animorph however they wished, keep her locked up, take her child from her, put her on medicines to keep her docile? Did they think, with him and the others gone and surely dead, there would be no-one to avenge it?

They had forgotten two basic things: firstly, Animorphs do not die easily. And secondly, they look after their own.

Now, one had returned.

And whoever had mistreated Cassie, and Tanya, would pay.

In blood.

Jake would have been ripping out throats with his tiger teeth if he had heard about this. Perhaps, he would not even have spared the time to morph, and have done so with his _human_ teeth.

Marco almost felt like doing the same. His shoulders tingled, tense, wishing him into his gorilla morph, wishing him to be stronger and capable of causing more damage. The nimbler and quicker wolf, which had been put to much use against the Kelbrid, made him long for the taste of blood in his mouth. He licked his lips and felt like growling.

He focused his anger on this Dr Glas. He seemed to be some sort of therapist, and when she mentioned him Cassie's eyes lit up with loathing, strong and simple and pure: the first emotion aside from grief Marco had seen in them since his arrival, and it was not an unwelcome change.

Well, if Cassie despised this therapist, shrink, or whatever he was, then so would Marco.

Marco's course of action was already set out for him: first and foremost, he would steal Cassie's daughter back for her. He could not imagine any reasons for Cassie to be a bad mother, and no such reasons for the child to have been taken. He could imagine plenty of conspiracies against Cassie which would end in her child being taken. The child of an Animorph would be a valuable thing indeed.

He only hoped that Tanya was still on Earth. That would simplify things. But he was more than willing to leave Earth again. At the time, he was disgusted with it, disgusted with the situation that had met him at his homecoming.

His only valid clue so far was Dr Robert Glas.

Finding Dr Glas proved difficult. Cassie was of no help. Marco snuck back to Cassie's house, and searched the place, but found nothing aside from the doctor's phone number, on a list beside the phone, in the kitchen. A phone number did not help him much. He was in no mood for talking, and suspected that beginning to ask pointed questions or utter threats over a phone would cause Dr Glas to discreetly disappear.

Finally, he returned to his craft. Cassie was lying on her bed, having hardly moved since he had left her. When he came closer, she sat up, watching him, and finally asked: "Did you find anything?"

"No," he told her. "It would be easier if you came back with me... you know the place. You're sure you don't know..."

Cassie shook her head, refusing to look at him and meet his searching gaze.

"It's only a wolf-morph away..." Marco tried.

"I can't morph," whispered Cassie suddenly, heartbrokenly, "I can't. I can't. I can't... morph. I... can't..." She buried her face in her hands and her muffled voice was lost. Sobs began shaking her.

Marco hurriedly sat down beside her and put his arms around her, his chin on the top of her head. "Oh, Cassie, what have they done to you?"

He stared at the wall in front of him and longed for the taste of blood.

Finally, Marco resorted to using the Tenkharian shuttle craft's computer. With it, he could access the internet, and finding Dr Glas there was simple.

Dr Glas, as it turned out, was a well-respected psychologist. He had written several highly acclaimed works, concerning mostlydepressions, delusions, and aggression. He no longer worked regularly – probably being too wealthy to bother – but did partake in several research projects. In his biography, Marco could read that he was 42 years old, widowed during the invasion of Earth, when he had been made a non-voluntary host to a sub-Visser. This contact with extra terrestrials had led to his interest in and studies on the new field xenopsychology (psychology of aliens), and he was considered a pioneer and expert in the field. He had also specialised in the changes in the psyche suffered by a morphable.

_Morphable_.

Marco did not feel any need to read more. He muttered and cursed beneath his breath as he hacked his way into the FBI files and found Dr Glas's current residence, as well as the necessary information on his security systems. It appeared advanced, but to Marco – who had been dealing with much more advanced technology while fighting the Kelbrid, it would be child's play. Especially for a morphable.

He pondered for a moment introducing this expert to the mind-warping technology he had encountered among the Elŷrrians, amidst their slave camps. He found himself fingering the silver tiara in his pocket, considering it, and realising that now it might come of use. If he placed it on this doctor's forehead...

Sudden horror filled him at the thought – his spine turned to ice. How could he think anything like _that_?

The damn tiara. The damn, cursed, wretched silvery thing in his pocket, that was how. He forced fury to replace the horror. Horror was weak: fury would protect him.

No.

He took a deep breath, and reinforced the thought.

_No_.

Whatever this Dr Glas had done, Marco would not use the Elŷrric tiara against him. He _could_ not use the tiara – he had no control over it, could not wield it. It controlled itself, and its wearer, and bent that wearer to the will of the Elŷrrians.

It would punish the doctor. It would make him miserable, hurt him and crush his mind, it would –

Marco gritted his teeth and searched for a core of anger. The tiara's song was echoing in the back of his head, tempting and alluring. He ignored it – or tried to. He delved deeper into his anger: he _would not_ use the tiara against the doctor.

_No_, repeated his mind, and suddenly everything fell into place, the prodding thoughts of using the tiara faded, calmed, and left him alone. No, of course he would not. The tiara would never end up on the forehead of Dr Robert Glas... for Marco wanted it for himself.

He _needed_ it.

If only he had been able to destroy it.

"Marco," came Cassie's soft call from the living quarters.

Marco left his computer, glad for the interruption of his thoughts, and hurried back to join Cassie.

She was seated with her chin on her knees and her arms around her legs, her back to the wall. Her manner was that of someone trying to hide in a corner.

Marco sat down on the same bed, cross-legged, facing her. He was glad to note that she did not pull away – she looked like she might have.

"Did you find him?" she asked.

"Yep. No problem. Are you sure he knows where Tanya is?"

"I don't know," murmured Cassie, lost. "I don't... know. But..." she drew a quivering breath, and with that breath gained some sliver of courage "...he should know where she is. He has to know. He _took_ her. Marco?"

"Yes?"

"How... how could they... take my child?"

"I don't know," Marco said, wishing there was some way to dull the pain in Cassie's eyes. He reached out to awkwardly put a hand on her shoulder. "But we'll get her back."

"Will we?"

Marco felt the anger glimmer in his expression, and smiled grimly. "Of course we will."

Cassie stared palely at the wall beyond Marco's shoulder. She might as well have forgotten he was there, until she spoke again: "Everybody's left me."

"I won't," Marco assured her.

She turned to look at him, pleading, as if she had not heard him speak. "You'll help me... you'll help me take back Tanya?"

"I will."

"When?"

"Now," Marco told her. "Get some rest. Or... are you hungry?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued: "I'll bring you some meat, and some water. That should last you for awhile. I'll bring us to Dr Glas's home. Then I'll disable the alarm, and we'll go in to confront the doctor."

Almost listlessly, Cassie nodded.

Marco leaned forwards to kiss her forehead. "It'll be okay, Cass," he promised. "I'm here now. And we're both Animorphs. We stick together. You've saved my behind too many times for me to count, so I'll take care of you now."

He left Cassie where he had found her, sitting in the same way. He brought her food and drink and made sure she ate and drank. She did so without any trouble – apparently hunger was still a more powerful force than grief. After eating, Cassie soon fell asleep.

Marco thought that to be for the best – he had once heard that sleep could serve as a defence against depressions. Careful not to disturb his sleeping companion, he tip-toed out to the consoles of his stolen Tenkharian craft, beginning to ready it for the flight to Dr Glas's residence.

He flew in silence, thinking. Cassie was a mother. It was a thought he had some difficulty to understand. Last he had seen her, she had been about to turn twenty. He still saw her as too young to be a mother. But it had been years since then, he reminded himself, and apparently Cassie had gone through a lot. He had, too.

Cassie was a mother. The father was dead. The father was not Jake. That was something Marco grimaced at. Jake was always "just about to call her". He had apparently been too late. He wondered what Jake's reaction would have been, had he come home and found Cassie like this.

Jake would have helped Cassie without blinking, Marco knew at once. And if that had led to a reunion between the two, Jake would have treated Tanya as nothing less than his own child.

Jake, though, was dead.

Marco missed him. He had survived a long time now without the guidance of Jake's instincts, and had learned to trust to his own. No – not to his instincts. He had trusted to his spontaneous reactions. They had, so far, served him well enough. He had survived, and even managed to find his way home. Despite Kelbrid and Lhosh and Ag'e'urnee and Elŷrrics.

As the Tenkharian shuttle craft descended onto a field not far from Dr Glas's compound, Marco hoped that his spontaneous reactions would continue to serve him.


	5. of morphing

**5 - of morphing **

Marco left Cassie in the shuttle craft. He asked her to stay where she was, but for some reason did not trust her agreeing nod. Her listlessness had faded when he had informed her that they had arrived at Dr Glas's home, and had been replaced by ferocity. Cassie was not in any condition to take any instructions – so he locked the craft as he left.

She could well sit in there and rave, or sulk, as she wished – as long as she did not endanger Marco or herself, as he feared she would.

Marco morphed a cat and advanced on the house with all the cat's nonchalant cockiness. He had acquired the cat – a tom cat, of all things – during his time as a TV star. Morphing it certainly brought memories. He remembered how he had, during filming, clawed another actor – playing his enemy – so that the man had been forced to stitch his cheek back together. He had apologized for it, of course, but the director had loved it and kept it for the final cut. The actor had not seemed to upset, either – once the stitches healed.

Marco walked around the house, searching for an entrance. An open window would serve him nicely. A nice, plump mouse would not have been completely wrong, either.

He pushed the tom cat's mind away, but before he did so he realised something: the smell of another cat.

He turned and swaggered the other way, heading for the door. If there was a cat, there might be a cat's door. But reaching the door, he realised his mistake. Of course there might be a cat's door – but not out the front. He trotted back around, annoyed with himself, heading for the back door. There he found what he was looking for: the cat's door, and an easy entrance.

Once inside, he sat down on his haunches and sharpened his senses. The cat heard nothing close by. The inhabitant of the house was asleep, snoring rather loudly, on the top floor. The inhabitant's cat seemed to have gone out for the night. Marco's ears and nose detected no signs of anyone else. He demorphed.

On silent feet, he made his way through the house towards the main door. Without any trouble, he disabled the collection of alarms and security systems – easy enough when one had just downloaded a list of the codes from the FBI.

At leaving Cassie, he had promised her he would do nothing more than disable the alarm and go right back to fetch her, and they would face this Dr Glas together – but he had lied. Considering the mental state Cassie was in, he had decided to first explore the house, perhaps even speak to the doctor, and only then bring either information about Tanya back to Cassie in triumph, or bringCassie into the house.

He melted easily into his wolf morph, sat down on his haunches, and started sniffing.

The tom cat had been truthful: the only inhabitants were a middle-aged male human and a cat.

There was no sign of any little girl.

Of course, she was most likely adopted away somewhere. Or hidden in some clinic.

Marco demorphed and made his way upstairs to the house's master bedroom.

His anger made him quiet and careful instead of rash, so he made as little sound as the tom cat would have done when he – after trying a few doors and finding the rooms empty – located the master bedroom.

Dr Glas slept, snoring loudly but peacefully, wearing a large yellow T-shirt with the scrawled text "mY fRiENd sAw tHe HoRK-bAjir, aNd aLL I goT WaS tHIs SillY T-ShiRt". His room was in darkness, but Marco's eyes could make out enough details to tell him that it was a largely plain room, containing a bed, a nightstand, a desk with a wheeled chair, and few decorations. The book shelf was filled with what appeared to be thick text books – as had the book shelves in the home office Marco had found. The alarm clock on the nightstand was set to 7:30 AM, which meant that in another half hour, the doctor would be waking.

Marco closed the door as silently as he had opened it, retreated down the stairs, and went to retrieve Cassie, leaving the front door unlocked. Dr Glas would be in for a nasty surprise when he awoke.

The two Animorphs were sitting in the psychologist's kitchen, on the top floor, when he came there for breakfast. Sleepy-eyed, he first peered at them, without appearing alarmed that he had two uninvited visitors.

"What are you doing in my kitchen, and who are you?" he asked. After peering a moment longer – Marco sat leaned back comfortably in his chair, while Cassie had looked up with the intensity of a hunting dog spotting a rabbit – he figured out who they were. He continued in a voice like concentrated honey. "Cassie, child, why aren't you home?"

Cassie's eyes flashed. She sprang from her chair and threw herself over the table, at the doctor, hands out before her like claws. For a moment, Marco thought she would morph, for her teeth seemed to be diving for Dr Glas's throat, but then she began screeching, "Where is she? Where've you hidden her? Where? _Where_!?"

She hit the psychologist and they both tumbled to the floor, leaving the kitchen in a scramble, the doctor retreating and Cassie furiously and nimbly following his every attempt.

Marco took his time in rising, striding over, and – with a firm but gentle grip on her shoulders – lifting her off the psychologist. He put her down beside him, and locked an arm about her to keep her in check. She turned towards him, first fighting his grip, but then beginning to sob, and sagged against him, murmuring something about no-one helping her.

Dr Glas, who had curled reflexively into a ball with his arms up to protect his face, slowly uncurled and glanced up. He looked neither surprised nor afraid. He was a middle-aged, balding man, with round features and – at the moment – a day's beard-growth staining the pale skin of his chin and cheeks. He could have been a teacher – he had the look of one; a patient, experienced teacher who for the twentieth year in a row was given a boisterous class but knew exactly how to deal with them.

"Thank you, young man," he said softly to Marco, peering up. He had ended up half-way under his living room table.

"Don't call me 'young man'," Marco replied, his own voice soft and deep and intense, like a large dog's warning growl. "And don't thank me yet. Tell my friend what she wants to know."

"But I don't know," Dr Glas protested, without changing expression, or even blinking.

Cassie tried to tear herself free of Marco's arm, and succeeded. Marco caught her again, though, and led her away, whispering all the while in her ear. "Calm, stay here, I'll take care of this," he finished, setting her on a nearby armchair and kissing her forehead lightly before turning back to the psychologist, who was just climbing awkwardly to his feet. He made sure to do so on the other side of the table.

"I might have been gone five years, but I'm not that far behind," Marco went on. "I've found a few things out, and figured out others. None of which I like."

"Five years?" whispered Dr Glas, frowning.

"I know about Cassie's parents. I know about Ronnie. I know about that so-called hospital, _with locked doors_, and how you've treated my friend." He went on in a hiss: "I know about Cassie living on meds, isolated from everything. And I know about you stealing her child for your research on morphing. _That_, especially, annoys me. And I'm not pleasant when I'm annoyed."

Cassie sat rocking back and forth on her armchair, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Dr Glas's frown slowly faded."One moment," he spun around, andbegan to hurryaway.

Marco dove after the psychologist with the reflexes of a large cat. He caught the doctor around the neck with the nook of his arm, and basically shoved him into a wall. "Don't turn your back on me, it's not very smart," he growled, pressing his lower arm against the doctor's throat. "In fact, it's very, very stupid."

"You've misjudged a lot of things," Dr Glas tried, somewhat quickly, his voice croaking. "You've no reason to be angry with me. First of all, I've done nothing wrong, nothing but my job, and I've done it well. Secondly, the Narisburg Clinic has a reason for its locked doors. You see, our patients are –"

Marco was only half listening. The tiara was calling to him, tempted him, its song mighty and soothing. Marco felt like he was a frog in water slowly heated to the boiling point, who stayed there because it was being heated too slowly for him to react to the change. He was reminded of how he had first come in contact with the silver tiara: closed in a locked room with it. It had called him, patiently and continuously, and after enough time, he had answered, and gone to pick it up... and thus been damned.

Now, it was singing that same song – in a very different tune.

The doctor still pinned to the wall, Marco automatically put his free hand into his pocket and pulled out the tiara.

"What's that?" Dr Glas wondered, his voice still croaking but not broken.

"This," Marco growled, realising suddenly what he had in his hand, "is the embodiment of your worst nightmares. If you even think of lying any more to me, this is what you'll be facing. And then you won't be lying anymore. You'll be very truthful. Understood?"

"There's no need for threats –"

"Oh, shut up." Marco stuffed the tiara in his pocket – now that he was aware of it, he was angry enough to be able to ignore its enchanting song, which in an instant went from triumphing and rewarding to patient and coaxing. "What have you done to Cassie's child?"

"Cassie's... child?"

"And what have you done to Cassie? Why can't she morph?"

"I've done nothing –"

Marco tightened his grip on the doctor's throat. "Don't play smart with me. Tell me where Cassie's daughter is, or I'll be reading it in your spilled guts like some voodoo doctor."

The psychologist grew two shades paler – Marco relished seeing even such a small reaction from him. Still, the psychologist remained collected. "You're... the Animorph Marco, aren't you? So you've returned alive."

"What did you expect? Animorphs, you know. Bullets bounce right off us."

Dr Glas turned grave. "You don't know, do you?"

Marco shook his head. "Stop trying to divert me. Where have you hidden Tanya?"

"Tanya?"

"Cassie's daughter."

"Cassie has no daughter. I don't know –"

Dr Glas was interrupted as Marco heaved him up, away from the wall, and tossed him to the floor. "Don't lie to me," Marco spat. "Don't –"

Dr Glas, while hastily scrambling backwards and away from Marco, in his calm and business-like voice continued speaking: "She doesn't have a daughter. She only thinks she does. She's delusional. She's been that way for four years. Since Ronnie died. When they killed him, they tried to kill her too.They shot her _first_. She was shot, while she was pregnant, did she tell you?"

Marco only stalked ahead, not in any hurry to catch the psychologist again. While he was talking freely, he might let something slip.

"Did she tell you where they shot her? Four shots, to her belly. _Four_. And one in her lung, probably near her heart."

"So?"

"So how would she have survived _that_? Not to mention her child?"

Marco scoffed. "She's Animorph. She morphed, of course."

Dr Glas nodded, affirming, his eyes more serious than afraid. "She morphed. And what would have happened to her child when she morphed?"

Marco stopped.

"And then she woke up again... in the hospital, and human again..." Dr Glas went on, "But without the child."


	6. at the wrong

**6 - at the wrong**

"Explain," ordered Marco. He stepped back, letting Dr Glas down from the wall and onto his own feet. The psychologist rubbed his throat, clearly relieved.

"Explain what?"

"Everything. If Cassie has no child, then how come she says she does? She isn't lying to me. There's too much pain in her for that. Delusional, you say? How come? And how come I should believe you?"

"I see how this could upset you... coming home to find your friend like that, seemingly in need –"

"Doctor," snapped Marco, interrupting him, "I'm not convinced she isn't. You'll have to prove your point."

Dr Glas nodded, slowly. "I will, then. I will. If you'd come with me..?"

Marco gestured him ahead, and the psychologist led the two Animorphs back towards his kitchen. Marco had the weeping Cassie firmly held beneath his arm, both holding her up and keeping her from damaging something. Firstly now Marco noted that Dr Glas, when he looked at her, appeared mostly concerned. He did not lower his guard, though, making sure that the psychologist walked past both window, door, and phone, without trying to do anything.

"Put her here," the doctor said and motioned towards a comfortable couch in the end of the kitchen.

Marco carefully deposited his sobbing friend there, murmuring a soothing word before leaving her. He followed Dr Glas to a table, perhaps twenty paces away, and sat down on a chair so that he could easily see Cassie. Dr Glas took the seat beside him.

"What a mess this is," the doctor began, rubbing his forehead. "I suppose you have questions. Where to begin?" He drew a newspaper towards him, and pointed to the date printed on the first page. "This was yesterday's. You've been gone nine years. Not five. Five years after you left, your friend and her fiancé were attacked. It's been four years since then."

Marco nodded, slowly. "And she's been like this since then?"

"Yes, sadly enough. We tried everything... finally, there was nothing to do but to try to keep her as comfortable as possible. She might refuse to morph, right now, but she's not thought to be exactly harmless. We all had too much respect for her to ever consider her harmless." He smiled softly. "She knocked me out, twice. She tried to do it near a hundred times. That's why, after a year, I decided to stop being her therapist. She simply hated me – my presence hurt her. I remained in charge of her case, though, and I've sent her the best therapists and psychiatrists and psychologists I could find. No-one has had much more luck than I had – although she never tries to knock _them_ to the floor."

"So what's it that made her like this?"

"We're not sure… shock, perhaps. She lost her fiancé, after recently having lost her parents. This, while pregnant in the eight month... there were hormones to consider, too. She was shot. She morphed away her child. Waking up... did she want to realise that she had caused her own child to... not exist? No, that would be too painful. So, to save itself, her mind took shelter behind the idea of... what did you call her? Tanya. To avoid pain, her mind chose delusions. A common enough reaction to tragedy."

Marco considered, seeing the pieces of the puzzle fall into place one by one, before finally saying: "But there was no Tanya nearby."

"And what conclusion could she draw, then, aside from this about someone having stolen the child?" Dr Glas finished softly. "There's another theory, too. I've studied morphing, and the minds of morphers. They adapt, take on qualities from the animals they visit. Female dogs and wolves sometimes, after being in heat but not mated, believe that they have puppies hidden somewhere, but they don't know where. They search, and they worry, and their temperament changes – temporarily, though. I think this might have contributed to Cassie's current state. These delusions fit the wolf as well as they fit her human mind."

Again, Marco nodded. "Will she recover?"

"We don't know. We haven't been able to reach her... she's isolated herself from the outer world. She might need someone close to her. Like... another Animorph. I'd say you're the closest thing to a family she has now."

"Tell me what to do," Marco said at once, softly, watching Cassie. "I'll help in any way I can."

"It won't be simple," Dr Glas sighed, shaking his head. "It'll take time. And effort. And... well, right now it's two in the morning. We'll talk of this over breakfast, in the morning. A good night's sleep, first. There's never any use to rush things like this."

"Fine," Marco agreed.

"But first, I must ask... what was that thing you threatened me with?" asked Dr Glas, to his credit more curious than afraid.

Marco dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the silver tiara. It was simple enough: a band to go over his forehead, with spirals on both sides, to be placed at his temples. As always it grew slightly in his hand, reading his DNA and adapting to fit perfectly to his head. The spirals were decorated with blue stones, and small, elegant patterns: Elŷrrian writing, which he had never been able to decipher.

Beautiful it was, and there in his hand, calling for him, he could hear its sweet song in his head, pleading him, reaching to him, beginning to embrace those corners of his mind it knew would welcome its return –

He slammed it down onto the table and turned his back to it, taking three complete steps from it. Anger had saved him again.

"Don't touch it!" he snarled at the doctor, seeing in his mind how the psychologist reached out to grab the tiara and study it more closely. He knew his instinct had been correct when a chair fell to the floor – so in a hurry was the psychologist to obey him and back away.

"Don't go near it," Marco said, now more softly. "Step away from it – don't even look at it."

Dr Glas came to stand next to him, staring at the wall, with the tiara behind him. "Is it that dangerous?"

"I'm at least six months worth of z-space travel from the closest Elŷrric. I haven't worn or looked at it for even longer. Still, it calls me, haunts me. Yes, it's dangerous. It..." he silenced.

"What is it? What does it do?"

"It's an Elŷrrian slave's tiara," Marco explained lowly. "It..." he drew a deep breath "It controls its wearer. It... warps its wearers mind. Causes madness. Makes them think and see and hear and feel and realise things they wouldn't do on their own. Things they don't want to think, see, hear, feel, or realise. It distorts our dreams, dispels our hopes… _breaks our minds_." The tiara's song was sweet, so sweet. "All to _make us easier to control_! All to _let them use us_. All to –"

Again Marco silenced. His voice had gone from numb and emotionless, to a growl, from there to a roar. He glanced to his right, and saw that Dr Glas had carefully stepped away from him. He found his own right hand punched into a newly formed hole in the plaster wall – he removed it, taking a long, steadying breath.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it," replied Dr Glas, in a soothing therapist's voice. "Now take your time, and just try to calm down."

"I am calm." Marco took another deep breath. "But... anger is the only way I've found to fight that thing."

"Perhaps you should... get rid of it?"

Marco snickered joylessly. "I can't."

"Why not?

"Because it has told me not to."

"Why do you obey it?"

"Because of what it is," the Animorph whispered. "Because of what it does – what's it's done, to me."

"What has it done?" Dr Glas continued, still in the steady and somewhat dry voice of his profession.

Marco sank down to the floor, on his knees, leaning against the wall, tears staining his eyes. He blinked them furiously away, and left his eyes closed. What had it done?

What had it not done? The same thing, repeated endlessly, for years and years.

Every horror and nightmare. Every broken hope, crushed dream. Every fear. Every night spent huddled in a dark corner, weeping for how useless he was, how worthless, how completely wasteful his very existence was.

And his only task, his only duty, the only thing he could ever do to feel better, was to serve the Elŷrrics. Serve them, and perhaps his life would have meaning.

_Serve them_, whispered the tiara. _Serve them, for they will care for you, you meaningless wretch. Serve them, for they love you, despite your many faults. Remember your faults? Your weakness, your arrogance, your cowardice, your selfishness? That's why they died, Marco. That's why Jake's dead, and why Rachel's dead, and why Ax is gone, and why Tobias and Menderash and Santorelli will never again see the light of day. And what about Jeanne? You thought you loved her, in your own pathetic way, didn't you? Why did you let them catch her, then? You're not capable of love. You don't know what it means. You're flawed, too flawed to ever love, or be loved. That's why you'll never be going home, no, not ever, for you're not worthy of going home. Serve, though, and everything will be okay. They'll love you, you see, despite your faults. Everything will be_ –

The short burst of joy in serving soon became addictive. The endless torture between crushed and devastated him, continuously, even when all that was left of him was pieces, like shattered glass strewn over the ground and still being stepped on.

Marco felt a hand on his shoulder, and awoke from the memories of the tiara's hold. He saw Dr Glas seated on a chair just beside him, and he found himself crawled down by the wall's roots, arms wrapped around himself and tears running freely down his cheeks.

"Tell me," said Dr Glas, ever so softly. "If you can. You don't need to tell me now, if you don't want to. What has it done?"

Marco drew a deep breath. "It has –"

_It is being taken from me_, came the unbidden thought, and he spun around and to his feet in alarm.

Cassie placed the victoriously glittering tiara over her forehead and leaned back against the opposite wall, facing Marco. Her eyes were growing wide, slowly, her mouth ajar. She sank to the floor with a whimper. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms about them, beginning to shake her head, beginning to wail "no_... no... not that... not_ –"

Marco darted forwards to tear the tiara from her head. Her entire manner changed at once – she kicked and clawed to defend the thing, with frightening ferocity. Marco's attack was no less determined, though, and he was both larger and stronger. He forced the tiara from her forehead, then from her clasping fingers, and threw the frail form of Cassie away with a swiping arm. She curled together, preparing an attack... but hesitated. For a moment she was dazed, as the tiara turned its focus back to Marco. As it let go of her, she curled together again and continued her wailing.

Marco paid her no attention.

The tiara was singing again, it had grown to fit on his temples comfortably, and with a welling sense of pride and jubilant accomplishment did he raise the thing to his forehead.

"I don't think you want to do that," snapped Dr Glas suddenly, and something – a thrown apple – struck the back of Marco's neck. The pain and flare of anger jolted him out of the tiara's spell.

Quickly, before it could claim him again, anddispell the anger, he shoved it into its pocket, muttering a haggard "thanks".

It took him a moment to sort out his thoughts, and to forget the vile sweetness of the tiara's call. When he looked up, he first turned to Cassie. She was sobbing, again, heart-wrenchingly, and this time tears flowed down her cheeks. Dr Glas had knelt beside her, speaking in his calming voice, patting her back comfortingly. She did not appear to even notice him.

Marco was glad she had only worn the Elŷrrian tiara for a short moment – she would not suffer its song for the rest of her days, as he would for the rest of his. But fury boiled in him, and he swore that if he ever saw another Elŷrric, the creature would pay for the tiara making Cassie weep. Cassie had already been through enough turmoil. An encounter with Elŷrrian torture was the last thing she had needed.

It would fade in a moment, though. The effects should last no longer than a few seconds, a minute at the most. She had worn the thing for too short a time to suffer longer than that.

Still, for longer than a minute, the other Animorph kept weeping.

"Cass," he whispered, making his way towards her on his hands and knees. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his embrace, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead. "Cass, don't pay any attention to it –"

Suddenly, she shoved him off and stumbled to her feet. "Leave me alone," she cried, and headed for a window. She dove through it head and hands first, shattering it, leaving a shower of glittering glass and bloodstained feathers.

Marco flew to his feet with a strangled cry and rushed to the window, staring out. First down, and then – with a curse, both relieved and annoyed – up towards the sky.

"I'd forgotten just how fast she can do that," he commented, beginning his own morph to owl, watching Cassie's ascent into the dark night.

"She morphed?" gaped Dr Glas.

Marco, half-owl, only nodded, flapping his wings, and took off, following Cassie.


	7. time

**7 - time. **

Marco thought Cassie might only panic if he called to her, and try some stunt which would end up with one – or possibly two – broken necks, so as he shadowed her he stayed as silent as the owl's wings. He kept his distance, amusing himself with an ongoing tirade about how much he despised the Elŷrrics, and what he would to if any Elŷrric ever crossed his path in the future... not that it was likely. Not that he ever wanted to meet one again – they presence made the tiara stronger.

He flew until he feared he had passed his two hour limit, and began worrying that he would be trapped in his owl shape, and so would Cassie in hers.

He admitted to himself that life as an owl would not be too bad, and had already begun listing the upsides and trying to dispel the downsides when the owl he was following angled her wings into a spiral and descended towards the ground, in amongst dark shadows which to the owl's keen eyes proved to be trees.

Marco followed. By the time he had landed and demorphed – he had clearly not passed the limit, after all – he had spiralled too much, and had lost sense of direction, and did not know which way Cassie was. He had chosen a spot not too close to her, intending not to disturb her if she needed peace.

He had had no intentions of losing track of her, though, so now he muttered a choice curse beneath his breath. After a moment of consideration he stood very still and simply sharpened his ears, listening for sobs.

Not a sound he could make out, and reached the conclusion that Cassie was not sobbing. He was still trying to figure out if this was a good sign or a bad one when the problem was solved.

Two wise golden eyes on a wolf's ashen face came towards him, its black nose twitching.

#I thought I caught your scent,# came Cassie's greeting, and never had Macro heard such grief in a thought-speech voice. It almost brought tears to his eyes.

But at the same time, there was a clarity in her voice, which had not been there before, and which kindled hope. She was speaking almost like the old Cassie, and despite the grief she sounded aware in a way she had not done been from the time he had returned to Earth.

The wolf stopped and sank to its haunches at some distance from him. He sat down, cross legged, to seem less threatening, and held out a hand.

Cassie flicked her ears, hesitating, but then stood and sauntered towards him. She touched her nose to his fingers and then stepped in beneath his arm. Finally, she dropped to the forest floor beside him, and rested her head on his knee, looking like a large, grey dog. Marco scratched her neck.

#You said Jake was dead,# Cassie said lowly.

"Yes. I did. He is." Marco studied her: if she was interested in anything except her parents, Ronnie, or the imagined Tanya, that had to be a good sign.

#How did he die?#

"Shot."

#Dracon?#

"No. An Elŷrrian version. I don't know what it's called."

#Did he suffer?#

Marco sighed and shook his head, wondering if he should tell Cassie exactly how Jake had died at that time. Not the full tale, at least. "I don't know," he lied. "He looked like he was in pain first, but then... he was peaceful, and turned delirious."

#He spoke?#

"Yes," Marco said, more and more convinced now that Cassie was – somehow – feeling better. How? The tiara?

He refused to think any good of that despicable thing. But if did make people see what they did not want to see. Maybe, since Cassie had been suffering from delusions... just maybe the tiara had helped her come to terms with that which she had denied for so long.

Marco doubted it. No good could come of anything Elŷrrian.

#What did he say?# Cassie wanted to know.

Ceasing to stroke the wolf's head, Marco closed his eyes and again relived those last few minutes of his best friend's life. The peaceful, if somewhat groggy expression, the heavy eyelids, the mumbling voice...

A cold nose prodded his cheek. #Marco?#

Marco sighed. "He thought he was in the valley... the Hork-Bajir valley. In the evenings. Do you know what he used to say? He used to tell me... '_Marco, could you check in on Cassie? Make sure she's okay?_' And I often agreed. Sometimes I even did as he'd asked.

"He must have thought he was back there. For he asked '_Marco, are the sentries in place?_' I told him they were, and he didn't have to worry, and he nodded. Then, '_Would you check in on Cassie? Make sure she's okay._' I said I would. He made me promise. Then he died. Then... the Elŷrrics came."

#I wish Jake was here,# murmured Cassie.

"I know."

#I... Marco, I'm staying in morph.#

"You're _what_?"

#I'm staying wolf.#

Marco was silent for a while. Then he grabbed the wolf's ear and squeezed it hard in his fist until Cassie wailed in protest.

"That's nonsense," he growled, sounding much like a wolf himself. "_Nonsense_. Idiocy."

#I'm staying wolf. I'm sick of being human. I'm –#

"Giving up, that's what you're doing. And I'm not letting you."

#Not _letting_ –# began Cassie angrily.

"You wished Jake was here. So do I. He'd put a stop to this lunacy."

#How?#

"He'd talk you out of it!"

#You don't understand what –#

"I don't understand?" snarled Marco, so sharply that the wolf flew up from his lap with a yelp. He had _known_ nothing good could come of that vile tiara! "I don't understand _what_? I don't understand what the Elŷrrian tiara does? I've worn it for infinitely longer than you did. I've lived with it day in and day out. And I don't _understand_ the despair it leaves behind? I don't _understand_ that despair leads to idiotic, insane ideas of self-destruction? Tell me what I don't understand, Cassie."

#It's not the tiara.#

"Of course it's the tiara. It's always the tiara. It did the same thing to Jeanne – sent her over the edge, made her kill herself. And now... no. No, no, _no_. I'm not allowing it."

#You can't stop me. You can't make me demorph,# Cassie told him softly. #I'm staying wolf.#

"You're running away."

#I'm making a choice.#

"You can't face the world so you're hiding behind fur and teeth," corrected Marco. He reached out, took hold of the wolf's fur, and pulled her back into place beside him. Over the last three days, he had grown used to her presence beneath his arm. She leaned her head on his knee again, looking up at him. "Why?"

#I don't ever want to morph again. I don't want to be human. I don't want –#

"Shut up, Cassie. Enough of the self-pity."

The wolf peered curiously at him. He sighed heavily. "Well, I suppose I better morph, too." He grimaced, and amended: "No, I suppose I better find a male wolf to acquire, cause I have no plans on ending my days as a female. No offence."

It did not take Cassie long to figure out what he was saying. Her golden gaze grew almost accusative. #You wouldn't.#

"Oh, yes I _would_. I'm coming with you, like it or not."

#But... why?#

"A slight promise I made to a dying best friend. See, I told him I'd make sure you were okay. A lone wolf out in the wilderness is not _okay_. So I'd either have to put you on a leash and keep you as a pet, or I'll have to go with you. If you prefer the leash, tell me, I'll arrange it."

Marco supposed she must have heard the sarcasm in his voice, for she stated plainly: #You're not serious.#

"Yes I am," he corrected, scratching her behind the ears. "About as serious as I'll ever be."

#But you've got –#

"No reason? Only about five years worth of memories from Elŷrrian slave camps that I would love to drown in some animal instincts. That's as good a reason as any. Too much to stay human for? Well, so do you."

#Me? I have nothing,# she said, bitterness and grief making her howl. #I've lost my parents, my fiancé, my – oh god, my child. I morphed my child away.# She whimpered. #I killed my own –#

"And fleeing into wolf morph won't bring that child back," Marco reminded her sharply. "Sure, you can go off, find a pack, and have lots of wolf puppies, but that child will still be just as un-born."

Cassie whined, and then howled, and licked her nose before howling again.

"Besides," Marco added, more kindly, "you'd been shot. Who knows if the child was still alive when you morphed?"

#I shouldn't have morphed.#

"Bullshit. Cass, morphing saved your life. Otherwise, you'd have been just as dead as Ronnie. And that wouldn't have helped your child, either."

#I still shouldn't have morphed. Perhaps...#

"Perhaps you should demorph, now." He grimaced. "Or no – stay in morph. If you demorph, I'm going to make another damn promise, and the first one causes me enough trouble as it is. Have you always been so difficult?"

Cassie let out another howl. #I shouldn't have morphed,# she repeated again, almost like a mantra. #I shouldn't have –#

"You shouldn't have _needed_ to," Marco amended fiercely. "There should have been someone to look after you at that time."

#Ronnie –#

"A lot of good he turned out to be!" Then, realising what he had just said, he mumbled an apology and started over: "You shouldn't have needed to morph."

The wolf whimpered, perhaps in agreement.

"Demorph, Cass. Please."

#What for?#

"If for nothing else, then for me," Marco pleaded. "I've travelled for months trying to get back home to the other last Animorph. I find her a wreck of her former self, delusional and broken. Then, although I'm still not clear on how, she appears better. And tells me she's running off to hide in some forest. What do you think I feel?"

Cassie only looked at him with her sad, golden gaze.

Marco shook his head. "Please, Cass, just demorph. I'm not exactly looking forward to life as a wolf. And if you demorph... you're still young, there's a whole life ahead of us. And I swear to you, next time you're pregnant, you won't have to morph. Not for anything." He shook his head wryly. "Damn it. That second promise just slipped out."

#Marco...#

"I wish Jake was here instead of me," Marco muttered. "You'd have curled up in his lap and he'd have talked you out of this nonsense in no time. Me, I'm..." He glanced down at the wolf, curled up in his lap. "I'm no good at this." He sighed, please, Cass, just try life again before giving it up. I was really looking forwards to going to a movie again, or playing playstation, or..." another sigh. "Jake would be so angry with me if he knew I'd let you turn _nothlit_."

#He'd be disappointed – in me,# Cassie corrected in a murmur. #And mostly, in himself. He always blamed himself.#

"If he'd been here you'd have demorphed just to be spared the pained expression on his face."

The wolf freed herself from Marco's arm, resting over her back, and stood up. She backed away. #I would have,# she agreed softly.

"Then I'm sorry I'm not Jake." Not having anything better to do, and running out of things to say, Marco hid his face in his hands. But when he looked up, he saw not a wolf, but Cassie, coming out of the wolf's grey shape with all her usual adeptness. She had a gift for making morphing look beautiful. She looked beautiful herself.

All he could do was smile, in pure relief.

Cassie moved in beneath his arm again, hugging him, and kissing his cheek. On an impulse, Marco turned to meet the kiss, and felt her lips brush past his own before they both pulled away.

"Sorry," he murmured awkwardly.

"Don't be," Cassie whispered, watching him intently. "Don't be sorry, and don't apologize." She reached up to kiss him again, now directly on the lips, only softly and only for a moment.

Marco was too surprised to do anything but blink. Cassie, though, relaxed beneath his arm, fitting there perfectly, as if she had been there all her life.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For everything."

Marco found nothing to say. He was still flooded with relief, and gratitude. They sat together in silence. The wind was cold against his skin, but it brought with it the scents of forest, of his home planet, so he did not mind it.

"Marco? I forgot something," Cassie said finally.

"What?"

"Welcome home."

* * *

...and on to the last chapter for a very extensive Author's Note. 


	8. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Author's Note: **

I'm not completely happy with this last chapter, but it'll have to do. The story, I love. I hope you liked it at least half as much as I do. Bunches of thank-yous to all reviews, great and small, negative or positive, I love them all. Reading a positive review is to a writer like myself somewhat like admiring my own reflection in a mirror. (And, let's be honest and admit it, there are few things we humans love as much as admiring ourselves.)

The answers to various questions in the beginning sort of dropped in piece by piece, didn't they? At least they should have done. This story should have, if I've been doing my homework, made you _think_. Made you reason and wonder. Draw hasty conclusions, like Marco was doing, and believe in his conclusions as he presented them, and then be surprised as the truth struck you, like a bucket of cold water.

Firstly, the Elŷrrics... while the idea of pregnancy and morphing was the spark to start this off, the Elŷrrics were the lit match which helped burn the idea into my mind and make me write. The basic idea was of an alien race different from the Yeerks and _devoted_ to slave trade, as opposed to the Yeerks' _dependence_ on slaves – a race cruel enough to make even Marco prefer the Yeerks. Consider it: the Yeerks need slaves to have any sort of meaningful life… the Elŷrrics, a conquering race capable and dangerous on their own, have them for simple convenience, and for entertainment. As cannon fodder in wars, as gladiators in arenas, as home servants, as targets to vent their anger at when their boss at work has yelled at them.

The slave camps and his service under the Elŷrrics have done much to alter Marco's character to where I needed him to be.

Marco, yes.He's different from the Marco of old. A reviewer (and thanks again to all you people who reviewed!) said that "_He's changed a lot, and his frequent thoughts of revenge and mingled despair really show him in a new light. It also ties into a little bit of his ruthlessness - maybe shows what happens when he loses his humor._". I tried to portray him as very bitter, very tired of the world, and longing only for peace. He's still ready and willing to fight for it, though - perhaps too ready. As he comes home and sees it slip between his fingers he immediately leaps at the first throat that appears - Ronnie's. Being wrong, he grumbles, considers, and searches for another throat to leap at - Dr Glas. He's still Marco, though, and he does stop to think in a while. He may have lost his sense of humour in the Elŷrrian camps, but he's not lost his wits.

Cassie's changed too, obviously. Her change has a greater chance of being only temporary, though. To clarify exactly what happened, in case the story didn't:

Due to Ronnie's involvement with politics, someone wanted to eliminate him. He constantly had Cassie by his side, though, and no-one thought that attacking Ronnie would leave Cassie doing anything else than defending him. Surviving his demise, she might take his place on the political stage, which would be dire: Ronnie was quickly growing popular, and thus dangerous to his opponents, but Cassie would be immensely popular from the start. It would be a down-right coup-de-grace for Ronnie's opposition.

So the choice was made to be rid of Cassie, too. Sad, but necessary. They shot her first, so she would not try to interfere. The first shot struck her lung, the second her belly, and then they aimed at Ronnie. There were totally five attackers, three of them armed with guns and two with common baseball bats (sort of cliché, I know). As Cassie fell, and began to morph, two more shots were fired at her. As Ronnie went down, shot once and charged by one of the baseball bats, she was already up, already healed by her morphing, and in the process of wrestling the other baseball bat man. How many shots she sustained in morph isn't clear, but the two attackers still on their feet after the struggles fled – or tried to, they were all captured and turned over to justice. Cassie, a bleeding wolf, crawled back to beside Ronnie, collapsed over him, and slowly demorphed, falling into unconsciousness as she did so.

She woke up later at the hospital, and the rest is story.

The question remaining, of course, is what happens next? Can Marco recover from the treatment he suffered in the slave camps? He can never be rid of the tiara, it's like a scar he's going to bear until the end, and in never being rid of it can he ever truly be free?

Can the tiara be used against him?

There is a sparkling possibility of a sequel, here. Cassie's distress is hopefully over… Marco's isn't.


End file.
